


Stars and pinned butterflies

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Christmas, Jim Has Issues, Jim Moriarty Has Issues, M/M, Minor Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Moriarty is Alive, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: Sherlock discovers after killing Magnussen that one James Moriarty isn't as dead he thought he was...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Jim Moriarty (implied), Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty (Implied), Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty (one-sided)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Stars and pinned butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> For the Christmas prompt on Amino!   
> Hope y'all like this :)

Sherlock closed his eyes and forced his respiration to even out, forced the frazzled remains of the previous minutes inside a box and pushed it far away from him, knowing he would have to deal with it later, knowing that that "later" would never have the time to come. 

It was Christmas, Charles Augustus Magnussen was dead and as far as he knew, Sherlock Holmes would soon be too. 

Of course, it wouldn't be immediate, death penalty had officially been abolished in England since 1969 after all, but the glance Mycroft had given him, filled with something inching towards desperation, told him more than he needed to know. 

He would be sent to do that mission he had refused earlier, he would survive for a while - 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘴' 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 - then he would die and everyone would finally be happy. 

Mary's identity would be safe, John's quiet life as well, and their child would grow up well-

Who cared about what happened to Sherlock Holmes in the end? He had already died once, even if it had been more metaphorical, so what would the difference be this time? 

A noise took his thoughts away from the dark musings of his mind, the sound of his window opening and of someone slipping inside, a person moving quietly and lying down next to him-

"Hello Sherlock… Did you miss me? " familiar voice, familiar accent, the words rolling off a poisonous tongue and tumbling out of cold lips. 

𝘖𝘩. 

𝘈 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.

Sherlock relaxed, not bothering to open his eyes. 

It wasn't the first time that he dreamt of the consulting criminal, he had seen the man more than once in his mind after his suicide, James Moriarty taunting him in his dreams, following him beyond the grave. 

"Are you really going to ignore me? "

Even with his eyes closed, he could practically see the pout, just by listening to his tone… still, the detective didn't react. 

He mustn't have fallen asleep a long time ago, so trying to add the visual to the audio would probably destabilize the dream-

The ghost shifted closer, and Sherlock froze. 

He could feel the warmth coming from the other, feel the hint of breath on his cheek… How vivid. 

Well… Maybe it was now or never right? 

He would die soon, so he should do the one thing he would always regret not doing before. 

Sherlock Holmes stayed quiet, silent, and merely pressed their lips together. 

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘰𝘱? 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧? 𝘖𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦? 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦?

James Moriarty's lips were soft and warm, they didn't taste like blood and death, as Sherlock had half expected them to, but faintly of jasmine tea and chocolate… 

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮-

The moment was broken though, when Jim viciously bit his lower lips before pushing him away, Sherlock's eyes flying open in shock and disbelief. 

That pain was real.

𝘏𝘦 was real. 

James Moriarty had faked his suicide, had somehow decided that now of all time would be a good moment to make his survival known to his nemesis, and Sherlock had kissed him. 

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵."

At least that meant that everyone had been taken aback by the last few seconds, even if it wasn't for the same reason. 

"How-" Sherlock, closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and swallowed the question, forcing himself to focus, to 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬, and push whatever he had just done away from his thoughts. The next time he looked at Jim, looked at him for the first time since that day on the rooftop, he was ready. 

"I saw you die. " he said simply, the short sentence tasting like poison on his lips. 

The other man, the ghost, tilted his head to the side, a grin slowly twisting his features. 

Jim hadn't changed, not even the slightest, he didn't seem to have gotten older or wearier, there was no trace of the passage of time on his face or anywhere else on him, and Sherlock would have been convinced he was still dreaming if his throbbing lips didn't bring him back harshly to reality. 

𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 

"You saw, but you didn't observe dear~" even that damn voice was the same, tilting and teasing " I was quite disappointed when you didn't even care to check for a pulse. "

The answering smile on his face was painfully fake, but the detective kept it there. 

"I'm afraid I was quite occupied at the time. "

𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘰, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨.

At any other moment, the surprise on the criminal's face would have been quite amusing, but right now he just wanted to scream. 

"What do you want? "

What else could he want from him? 

They had played and he had won, completely and utterly won, so much that Sherlock hadn't even realised it until it was too late. 

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦.

"It's Christmas. " he said, as if that answered his question, as if that meant anything at all, "It's Christmas and you're going to die soon, I thought that it would be rather fitting to spend your last night as a free man with me. "

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦.

He shouldn't accept it, the man was James Moriarty, supposedly dead consulting criminal, and he was Sherlock Holmes, soon to be dead consulting detective-

But what did he have to lose anyway? 

"Alright. " he sighed, the word almost leaving his lips on its own, "Alright. " he repeated, just to make sure he hadn't dreamed the first time, "What do you propose then? "

And Jim grinned, just a little too much, just nearly not enough. 

"I thought you'd never ask. "

\-----------

The criminal didn't as much answer as hold his hand out, metaphorically this time - 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 - and whisk him away, Jim barely giving him the time to grab his shoes or his cloak before he was jumping out of the opened window. 

Climbing down the building was quite easy and he had done it enough times to know the best way by heart, but somehow, seeing the other do it was something else entirely. 

Perhaps it was the excitement barely constrained beneath his skin, perhaps it was the exhilaration in his grin, but Sherlock found himself unable to look away. 

"Did you change your mind? " Jim asked when he saw he wasn't followed, his words teasing, lacking any real bite. 

The Irish imp obviously knew that wasn't the case, the amusement curling his lips made that very clear, so Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and in a couple of jumps, he was standing near the other man. 

"I was just wondering why you were taking the longest way down. "

His comment was answered with batted eyelashes and mock coyness. 

"Well, obviously because 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 was watching, why else? "

Jim shook his head in amusement, glee visible just barely beneath the surface, before skipping away, humming a song Sherlock recognised as one of Queen's. 

"Where are we going anyway? Do you actually have a plan or are we just going to walk through the city until my brother catches us? " he asked, following the smaller man. 

Seeing Mycroft's reaction at the criminal's survival and at his brother being with said criminal would be quite amusing, but Sherlock didn't particularly want to be given an earful before his suicide mission. 

"Don't worry dear, Big Brother won't see you, and even if he does he'll turn a blind eye for tonight, won't he? "

The wording made it seem like a question, but everything else, from the tone to the knowing look in Jim's eyes, clearly showed that it was anything but. 

For some reason, he 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 that Mycroft wouldn't act, even if they caught them. 

𝘞𝘩𝘺?

The query was on the tip of his tongue, but right as he was about to voice it, a nondescript black car stopped right in front of the alley they were exiting. 

"Looks like our ride is right on time. " Jim held the backdoor open for him until he sat inside, and then slipped next to him. "Let's go. "

\-----------

There was a man driving the car, he looked at Jim for a second, his expression blank, before glancing at Sherlock, something he couldn't quite identify shining in his blue eyes. 

One of Moriarty's men of course, and closer than the average henchman if he was trusted enough to drive him around with the consulting detective… 

Jim must have noticed his interest because he gave him a knowing smirk, lounging in his seat like a King watching a particularly interesting fool, a scientist waiting to see how his last experiment would pan out. The message was clear : '𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦'. 

Ah. 

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦? 𝘈𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸, 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴…

That didn't mean Sherlock wouldn't play along. 

"Ex-military, sniper, holding a good rank… But still discharged. " his brows furrowed in concentration as he focused on their driver. "Old scar on the face caused by some kind of big cat, a tiger most likely since he was in India. "

Jim hummed, obviously pleased, and Sherlock forced himself not to react. 

"Good, good… " he practically purred "What else? "

𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, the information flew before his eyes, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘦𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘖𝘹𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦, he could tell, 𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘺, was easily deductible. 

𝘜𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴.

His eyes flew from the back of the man's head to Jim, linking everything he had seen, everything he had observed-

Oh. 

He remembered it now, that code name he had seen in Mycroft's files about the network, with no picture and no identity linked to it, Moriarty's right-hand man-

𝘛𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘳.

"Sebastian Moran. " 

If the tightening of the callused fingers around the wheel hadn't told him his deductions were right, Jim's delighted expression certainly had, the man watching him with a hungry look, his eyes burning with an almost suffocating intensity.

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥, 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥. 

\-----------

Sherlock fell silent afterwards, watching the streets in an effort to guess where they were going… 

It was a nice excuse at least, but the fact that he had been transfixed by Jim's reflection in the car's window for the last few minutes certainly defeated the entire purpose. 

How was he supposed to pay attention to anything else anyway? The man was larger than life, even when he was apparently relaxed, he simply exuded power, oozed 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, until the very air they breathed was permeated with his being. Their previous meetings had been something, that was certain, but this? If someone told him that James Moriarty was a fae, a god, a barely comprehensible thing warped into a human shape, Sherlock wouldn't even bat an eyelash. 

"Here we are! " Jim suddenly chirped, bringing him out of his reverie. 

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘮?

"Why here? "

The other tilted his head, piercing black eyes slightly softened by his amusement. 

"Empty museums are fun. " he said with a grin, and Sherlock wondered if there was more to it. "Did you ever go there? "

The detective shrugged. 

"Maybe as a child? I probably deleted it, it's not like there was anything useful in there. " 

Jim looked offended by the comment, mock shock plastered on his face, and Sherlock was certain he saw their driver smirk in the rear-view mirror. 

"You can say that you dislike museums, but certainly NOT that the things stored there are useless! "

The car stopped and the next second Jim's hand was in his, practically dragging him out of the car and towards the building. 

  
  


\-----------

Moriarty must come here often, Sherlock realised, as the guardian merely shot him a knowing look and moved to the side when they both arrived, throwing his keys to the smaller man. 

But why did he come in that museum for? Jim seemed fond of the place surprisingly enough, and a wide grin was now stretching his lips, but he had troubles understanding just what the consulting criminal found interesting. 

"Why did you bring me here? Are you planning to steal that dinosaur? " he asked, glancing in distaste at the skeleton taking most of the main hall. 

The only answer he got was a scoffed "Dippy? Why would I do that? " and rolled eyes. 

Before he could try finding more about it though, Jim's warm fingers had tightened around his own and he was being dragged around by a whirlwind of barely concealed excitement, the eagerness drowning any question he might have wanted to ask. 

They walked - 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 c𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 - through the displays, Jim sometimes making a comment or two about the exhibits without stopping, still focused on whatever he wanted to show him. 

Well, at least he hadn't been excited about the stuffed animals… 

At some point, the criminal seemed like he was going to stop in front of the entomology exhibitions, his explanations getting longer, more descriptive, but he ultimately continued without as much as a last glance to the insects. 

"Did you study those? " Sherlock asked off-handedly as they tread through the silent halls, their way lit by a flashlight the guardian had given them. 

Jim shrugged, his earlier passion all but gone. It was quite strange, not being able to see the spark that had inhabited him a few instants before, his interest and his fascination left pinned on the corkboard with the butterflies. 

"It was intriguing, for a while. " he said flatly. 

The next time he showed that same excitement, that same flickering intensity, they were walking in front of some fossilized plants, and Jim's eyes suddenly lit up, his voice picking up, explanations and theories falling out of his lips in a frenzied whisper. 

It was manic, almost, but Sherlock had never seen anything as enthralling...

He was just so 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, and maybe that was why he couldn't look away, why he couldn't even imagine breaking the man's focus, simply because after seeing him dead, sprawled on that rooftop with a crown on blood, he needed to be proven again and again that it had only been a charade. 

\-----------

Ultimately, they arrived in the room Jim had been looking for, and time seemed to stagger. 

There was a notable shift in the air, an adjustment in the fabric of reality, one instant, just before they entered, the criminal was practically brimming with excitement, and the next he just… 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵.

But it wasn't like the emotions were gone, no, if anything they were just so much stronger, so much more intense, until even the criminal seemed to have trouble dealing with them, until Sherlock felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn't be seeing. 

Meteorites, fragments of asteroids in various states, pieces either minuscule or gigantic, crystal shards glistening in the stones, Jim let out a shuddering breath and paced around the rocks, an elated grin slowly finding its way on his face. 

His eyes were intense, far too intense, and he wasn't even sure what he would if that look was directed at him-

And that's exactly was Jim did, he stopped, turned, and 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥, that reverence he showed towards the stars, the cosmos, still reflected in his eyes. 

He had the same expression when he had thanked him on that rooftop, he had gaped at him like he was a supernova, with deference and exaltation, before putting a bullet through his brain. 

𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥, the gaze begged this time, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥. 

And Sherlock didn't, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵.

"I… "

'𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵. ' he wanted to say. 

'𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. ' Jim understood. 

"But-" for an instant, a fragmented second, the man seemed so lost, so confused, and then his eyes sharpened, every single one of his muscles seemingly taut with tension. "The fake painting, the Van Buren supernova, you knew what to look for, you 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸!" 

The last word was more of a screech than anything else, the fury, the pure, unadulterated rage twisting his features until the criminal was barely recognizable, and for the first time, Sherlock found himself truly afraid of Jim. 

Oh, of course, he had been wary of his intellect before, he had thought the other wanted him dead and he had known that there would be no ways to avoid his fate if Moriarty truly insured he didn't survive their game, but not once had he thought the man would just lunge at him and tear his throat out with his teeth….

Now that he thought about it, he didn't think he had even seen him angry, not really at least, he had dramatized his annoyance multiple times, at the pool or St Bart's, he had screamed, yes, but he had always been in control-

Now he wasn't quite sure whether the other would bother stopping himself or not. 

"I was lucky to hear about it in the planetarium beforehand, I just remembered that. " Sherlock explained softly, fighting the urge to step back, the urge to slowly back away until he was out of the criminals range and then to run away as fast as he could. 

Jim looked like he might kill him in his rage, but he was going to die soon anyway and six months working for the secret service wouldn't change a lot. 

There was a long pause, a sigh, and ultimately a shaken head. 

In a second, his eyes had dimmed, his previous excitement disappearing completely. 

"You don't even know the planets of the solar system, do you? " 

The question was soft, so soft, but somehow that was even worse. 

Jim didn't look like he might kill him anymore, but Sherlock would have preferred death to the agony in the other's eyes. 

The lack of answer told the criminal more than any word could have, and the pain only seemed to worsen before he snapped his walls back on, his expression completely blank. 

"Well, I guess we have nothing to do here anymore then. "

Sherlock would have dropped everything on the spot and become an astrophysicist to make Jim look at him again. 

\-----------

Somehow, that wasn't the end of their night, the other was quiet for a while, stuck somewhere in his mind, stuck in a better reality where Sherlock loved the stars half as much as he did and nothing distinguished them anymore, but he ultimately got out of it once they reached the car, his previous grin back in place. 

𝘐𝘧 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 

"Where to boss? "

Jim paused for a second, apparently weighing the options, and then smiled. 

"Let's just go home. "

𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦? 𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘉𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵?

He realised his worries were unfounded when the car took another turn, bringing them farther from his flat and towards Mayfair-

Conduit Street? Who would have thought James Moriarty lived at a fifteen minutes walk from the Diogenes club? Mycroft would probably have a fit if he knew! 

Jim hadn't talked a lot during their first car drive, but during this one the man was literally everywhere, jumping from one conversation subject to another, ranting about the usual take outs' quality before apparently deciding that speaking of chemistry would be better and diverting the conversation towards rare poisons. 

It was more than interesting of course, but Sherlock couldn't help but think about the long silence as they walked out of the museum, the quietness that had hung between them. 

'𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦~' the man had almost sang years ago, but had he already put the whole thing behind them or was he just donning a mask? 

\-----------

Jim's home was… Very 𝘑𝘪𝘮. 

There wasn't really a way to describe it without mentioning that fact, and he certainly hadn't expected anything like that. 

For some reason, every times he had tried to imagine James Moriarty staying somewhere, sleeping somewhere, it was always in some nondescript, expensive looking flat, with sleek furniture and impersonal rooms, a place where he would stay for a few weeks before moving out to avoid security risks, not truly a place to live but just a place to eat and rest-

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵. 

The entire building was his, that was easy to deduce at least, but if someone had dropped him here and told him he was in the middle of London, Sherlock would have laughed at them... 

His reaction would probably have been to giggle to death if they had tried to imply this was Moriarty's house. 

It was just so-

"A bit chaotic, isn't it? " Jim commented with a slight smirk, his expression making it obvious that he had noticed Sherlock's surprise. 

"What's this place? "

His voice was nothing but a stunned whisper, but the other answered it nonetheless. 

"Home. "

And Sherlock could see it, could see the care put in all of the potted plants, that attention that had practically turned the entrance into a tropical forest, could see the obsession laced with the stolen paintings adorning the hallways, the passion put into the pinned butterflies exhibited on the walls. 

The overwhelming 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 in the constellations painted on the ceilings. 

Jim took him around the house, smiling slightly, but neither spoke, the criminal to let him enjoy the visit, the detective simply because he would have needed to close his mouth before opening it again to talk, and that was absolutely impossible to do right now. 

"You're not afraid of being found and cornered here? " he managed to choke out after some long minutes. 

The answering shrug confused him slightly, at least before the man spoke. 

"Afraid? No. It would be worth it anyway. "

𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘉𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? 

Never. 

...

This really was Jim's home as much as 221b was Sherlock's, wasn't it? 

\-----------

Discussing with the criminal, with the game but not the threat, the riddles but not the menaces, had showed him one thing :

After 5 minutes of knowing him, Sherlock had known there was something special between them.

After 5 hours, he was completely and utterly lost. 

Just what was he even supposed to do anymore? 

Jim wasn't completely relaxed of course, but he was open and he smiled, he would never be an angel - 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 - but he wasn't completely made out of blood and violence either...

During his years of forced exile, Sherlock had wondered many times just how things would have turned out if the man hadn't killed himself, if he had seen the death wish before and grabbed the gun, if he had done something, anything, to ensure they both left that rooftop alive. 

In the end, his reverie had extended beyond even that and he had started thinking about the criminal himself, about what kind of character he was hiding beneath his masks, about what he would like and enjoy, about the way his eyes would crinkle when he smiled genuinely. 

Days after days, pieces by pieces, Sherlock had given his heart to the figment of his dreams, to the Jim-shaped silhouette he had created in his mind palace, but now the man was really here, living, breathing, and he was more, so much 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

He had no idea how he had even managed to go through his boring life before, but after a few hours spent in a leather sofa with the most dangerous mind the world had ever seen, he couldn't even imagine breathing without the smaller man at his side-

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘩 𝘢𝘩 𝘢𝘩 𝘢𝘩

Sherlock froze, the scent of blood and gunpowder suddenly assaulting his senses, the vision of Jim, grinning at death, flashing before his eyes. 

"I'm afraid I need to take that, I'll be back in a few minutes. " the criminal said, his lips twisted in displeasure, and before he could ask anything, Jim had disappeared into another room, the door closing behind him. 

\-----------

Sherlock was observing Moriarty's rather impressive collection of original poetry books - 𝘙𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘶𝘥, 𝘉𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦, 𝘈𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦... 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 - when the sniper, Moran, entered. 

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘑𝘪𝘮'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦-𝘪𝘯" 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.

"You should be more careful Holmes, you're looking more and more like a lovestruck fool…" the man started "Remember that you're only staying until midnight and don't get too caught up. "

Ah. 

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳?

"I'm afraid that what's between your 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘴 and me has already lasted for quite a few years… And is very much not your business. " Sherlock commented with a smirk, not even trying to play nice with the man. 

Why should he after all? 

His answer only seemed to frustrate the other man even more, Moran passing his hand through his hair a few times before sighing. 

"James Moriarty doesn't love, he 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴. He forgot about you for a while when we were aboard, then you killed Magnussen and he got pulled in again, but it won't last. "

'𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵. ' he meant, and he seemed almost sad about it. 

Sherlock frowned, refusing to believe the words. 

"He loves the stars. " 

He had seen the charts, seen the telescopes and the books, seen the nebulas painstakingly painted above their heads-

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬'𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥. 

There was something strange in the sniper's gaze, but he couldn't tell whether it was anger or pity. 

"And that's the problem isn't it? He gave his heart to the cosmos at some point, and the whole thing was swallowed by the void. Maybe he kept a silver, and that's what he's constantly trying to fill, but don't mistake his obsession for love Holmes, you'll just end up getting hurt. "

"What, first-hand experience? " Sherlock asked with a cruel sneer, knowing he was right when he saw the other tense. 

"I just wanted to warn you because I owe Watson and he would be sad to see you fall apart, but I guess you don't care…You're not the first one to be pulled by him though, the lucky ones get to die afterwards, somes just beg at his feet, anything to be able to stay with him-" the man stopped, seemingly lost in thought - 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 - for a second, but the next instant he was smiling sharply, his eyes glinting in cold amusement "-your brother comes every Sunday afternoon for tea. "

And before the detective could ask just 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺, Jim was strolling back into the room and Sebastian was sinking out. 

\-----------

"Sorry for the wait darling. " the criminal said before taking back where they had left off, easily restarting the conversation. 

And it was nice, so nice, but Sherlock could see the seconds dribbling by, could see the end of the day crawling towards them… 

Jim had said he wanted to be with him because it was Christmas, but what after that? He hadn't mentioned anything, Moran seemed to believe he would just get dropped off in front of 221b, but that wasn't true, couldn't be. 

The criminal had said it himself afterwards, they were alike, so alike, the detective might not have the other's passion for the stars but he would learn everything he could about them and then they would be mirror images again, like they had been before and had always been meant to be-

"Let's leave London. " Sherlock suddenly said, his eyes filled with determination and certainty "Mycroft's colleagues will be looking for me but I could just fake my death again, I know how to do that quite well now. "

It could work, 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 work, the only one who think about catching them was Mycroft, and even if the older disliked Jim - 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦? 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦? '𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘢' -, he wouldn't give up on his brother's life like that, not when he had finally a perfect way to survive-

"Why should I do that? "

Jim tilted his head to the side, frowning slightly, and as he noticed the bewilderment in the other's eyes, Sherlock finally understood. 

Oh. 

𝘖𝘩.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥.

It wasn't that Jim hadn't grasped what he was asking, no, it was simply that he couldn't even imagine why he should drop everything to be with him, why he should even make Sherlock a priority in the first place. 

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

The detective didn't add anything, didn't answer Jim's question as there was nothing left to say anyway: Sebastian Moran had been right and he had been wrong, the sniper had begged to stay, Mycroft came for tea on Sundays and Sherlock would just have to die. 

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦?

Tic tac tic tac tic tac

Jim shook his head in puzzlement, before glancing at the clock. 

"Well, looks like it's time for you to go back dear. " 

He seemed to hesitate for a second, two, but he ultimately stepped forwards, brushing their lips together. 

"Merry Christmas. "

Tic tac tic tac 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

  
  


\----------

Sherlock couldn't even remember how he got back to his room, whether or not he actually slept and just what happened during the morning. 

His memory was just 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘬.

He said goodbye to John afterwards, to Mary and even to his brother, to the other's surprise-

𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳? 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵? 𝘖𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘦? 𝘔𝘺𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦? 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘑𝘪𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘴.

The plane was comfortable, he could just sink into his leather seat and act like last night had never happened… the trip leading him to his death would be a nice one at least. 

It would have been better if they had killed him immediately, if they had shot him in the head just like he had shot Magnussen, if they had ignored Mycroft's orders and just dealt with him. 

He wouldn't have known Jim was alive then, he wouldn't have known how it felt to have his heart crushed into pieces, he wouldn't have know what wishing for death was like-

Ah, well the Reaper would come soon enough anyway. 

Closed eyes, slow respiration, he forced himself to relax in his seat-

And then his phone rang. 

Mycroft, of course, something about England needing him-

Jim. 

Of course it was Jim. 

Maybe it was like the plants he didn't love but was still relatively fond of, maybe he just liked collecting people like he did with his pinned insects, maybe he had just liked having tea with him, the detective didn't know, but that damned video was still flashing in the cockpit. 

𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦 ? 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦? 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦? 

Jerky image, dead eyes, dead smile, and Sherlock hated him, hated him so much, but more than that, he hated the fact that he did. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought about this! :)  
> For once I kinda wanted to have Sherlock being the one with the unrequited feelings? I hope it didn't turn out too bad haha
> 
> I miiiiight also write something a bit more fluffy with those two for Christmas again-


End file.
